Mrs. Giardino Passed Away

August 27 2007

My Mother passed away early Monday morning on August 27th. I never made it home in time to hold her hand while she still had life left in her. I have loved her while she was alive and I have to come to terms that it was not meant to be for me to spend the last few moments of her life with her. In fact died alone and I will have to live with that guilt.

Rose

I am deeply sorry your Mom passed away, I’ve come to terms with death as a chapter of life, though to the living it seems final, it may be but a passage, and maybe there, in that unknown dimension there is renewal.
Strange, I also was not with her when my mother passed away… I share your feelings and dark emotions…

How do I remember Mrs.Giardino? It was 1957; we met on a cold winter’s Winnipeg day, at the Holy Rosary Church. Her camaraderie was a burst of fireworks, as if we had known each other a lifetime and more… Outlandishly aggressive in her offer of Calabrese friendship, strong-willed with an independent trait she would always get her way. Her four children were her jewels. She baked her own bread… with roasted eggplant dipped in virgin olive oil…

Like many of her era, "Sina" grew up knowing the many hardships including the loss of her son at an early age. Working long hours over the stove or at her sewing machine, knitting, crocheting anything that would keep her hands busy. This contributed to creating a woman who understood the value of a dollar and hard work. A woman who had the fortitude to stick things out when life got tough and who appreciated the many gifts of life. The gifts she treasured the most were her grandchildren. Mom loved to be in the company of her family and friends and they in turn enjoyed her spirit, her smile and her kind heart. In later years when physical activities became somewhat of a challenge she took that on too - never giving up

©2007-Rose Lyman

The Messanger

What is life but purpose
Is not night but day with the absence of sun?

The messenger travels
His purpose to deliver the light

What is hope but a glimpse
Is not snow in a shadowy alley as white?

The messenger waits
He tenders redemption, his purpose fulfilled

What is love but a gift
Of goodwill on the wings of a whish?


©2006-M. Della-Marina

You Died last NIght

For my unkindness
I knew tomorrow would be there
to make it up to you,
tomorrow came and you were dead,
you died alone on Christmas night.

On Christmas Eve you cried,
held up your arm calling for someone
but no one came to hold your hand,
to kiss you good goodbye
on that lonely Christmas night.

Stained with guilt and shame my plight
calling out your name, O Mother,

Mother can you forgive me
for not being near you
on your last Christmas night?

©2006-M. Della Marina

The Road to the Cemetery

To my Mom and Dad

A wintry day,
on the windowsill of the last house
geraniums and cyclamen
blossom as they would in summer.
Beyond the village,
impenetrable fog waits, silently!

In the distance,
the road that begins with two white pillars
and is flanked by cypress trees
appeared to have no end.
Detached and far away the white-stone walls
surrounding the cemetery.

But for me,
approaching the wrought iron gates,
sealed inside my black coffin,
under sprays of flowers and a golden cross,
the road was much to short.
the hour came too soon!

The fog lifts.
Rays of sunshine perch on my expectant grave.
A bell tolls.
Tell me oh Heavenly Lord,
why so heartbreaking
the road that leads to peaceful repose?


The Road to the Cemetery
©2006-M. Della Marina

In Memory of Mrs. Kalmar

In Memory of Mrs Kalmar
February 17th, 1927 Ada (ex. Yu.)Serbia
December 11, 2006 Vancouver B.C.



from THE PROPHET: Kahlil Gibran


Almitra spoke, saying, We would ask now of Death,
And He said:

You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?

Yet is he not mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Earthquake

How long is an earthquake? Is it ten – twenty - sixty seconds? When the earth beneath your feet is dancing the dance of death, how long are ten – twenty – sixty seconds?
Is each second a thousand seconds, does time stand still, can you hear the infernal roar, or is it in a flash of icy silence that earth’s quaking viscera twists your brittling back bone?
At that unforeseen, unpredicted, unsuspected moment, when the fiendish fury strikes, are you eating – sleeping – making love? Meditating? Praying to the Lord?
Earth shakes, howls, pauses, ---- its over---- you think ---------- And then before you know it, the fury strikes again, tripled the second time around.
Walls came crushing down, trapped, wounded, breathing dust beneath the rubble you wait, in hope, in fear, ---- you hear distant shouts--- screams
And the agony of a loved-one dying beside your feet.

Heroe's Never Die

Heroes never die…
Their bodies loose that common texture known as life
while a thousand times enriched by death, their quintessence lingers on.
A hero’s fate is not to die in bed, conquered by old age,
a hero’s destiny is the battlefield, not diabetes or Alzimer’s disease.


Go, go brave man, warriors deserves a sudden death.
On a sharp bend, a Daytona coupe careened - - slamming into a tree --
so was earthly existence snuffed for Aussie legend Peter Brock.
And Death kept watch each time Steve Irwin kissed a tiger,
or toyed with scorpions, swam with sharks, or hunted crocs.


Though a hero fears it not, he’s aware of his companion’s presence,
invisible, mysterious, well-known yet unknowable, haunter, not hunted,
feral essence never tagged or captured for the zoo. That’s Death!
To a car-crash or the barb of a black stingray, unconquered heroes
freely yield, by Death immortalized, rejoicing in Elysian Fields